


Take a Bite

by TheWriteType



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Human Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, creature Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:16:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWriteType/pseuds/TheWriteType
Summary: Will Graham wasn’t his first name. But his life this time around might just be one of his more memorable ones.Edit: Summary 1/21/19





	1. Prologue

 

 

Crickets chirping to the buzzing of cicadas. These sounds fill the air but his ears catch more than that. The wind’s rustling leaves both near and distant, while creatures of the forest, from rabbits to foxes, chitter and squeak; the parents herding their young or crying out for the lost ones.

 

He wades in the river, the dawn light reflecting purple, with bare feet firm on the submerged rocks and soft, wet earth. Fishing pole in hand, he lets his cast fly- the lure a bright red before it falls.

 

Beneath shut eyelids, the outline of corneas flicker back and forth, as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, with long lashes fluttering along. His sharp chin rises, baring his long neck like a salute to the sun.

 

Wide and stormy blue devours the walls, the floor. In those eyes, a deep-seated sadness darkens the shine expected from a youthful face that’s past the rigors of puberty, but not even touching the age of prime. Delicate, yet capable hands, - accustomed to labor but unmarred in the aftermath- glide over a satin, soft blanket sitting over folded legs.

 

A shaky breath escapes thin, cupid-bow lips, and the clink of shackled wrists and ankles breaks the oppressive silence.

 

Tilting his head back, his skull thunks dully on the headboard. No hollow ringing follows, a promise of solid cherry wood- the tint of maroon and red in the grain betraying its origins.

 

The only locked door in the room opens and a crack of light highlights the transition of lavender purple to storm-brewn blue.

 

“I’ve brought nourishment.” A heavy accent showcasing Scandinavian and European origins speaks in an enunciated and masculine tone. The man’s silhouette stands tall, elongated by the hallway light behind. An afterimage of his ink-black form seems otherworldly on its own, while the signs of arms holding a tray brings his mind back to stories of the pomegranates Hades had offered to Persephone. The better to keep her with, and Will knows this shadow hopes to do the same to him.

 

But he’s far from a young, innocent, and naive daughter stolen from her mother’s bosom.

 

“By nourishment do you mean what I actually need to eat or your strict diet?” Teeth bare a parody of a smile, akin to a cornered wolf staring down the barrel of a hunter’s rifle.

 

An answering smile, as full of teeth if not more, of a satisfied predator. The man’s hand effortlessly holds the tray on one, while moving the other to flick on the switch. Bathed in light, the room is revealed in all its glory. Surfaces of marble and tasteful (ostentatious, Will scoffs) gold filigree spread throughout, a melding of a modern and classical sense.

 

“Nothing wrong with being careful about what I eat.” He places the tray on the vanity table with a large frameless mirror, which faces the bed and should have reflected the occupant chained on it. “In turn, I care greatly about what foods my dear friends consume.”

 

“What you let pass through your lips is vastly different from what I let pass through mine.” A mockery of the other’s sentence structure. Chained and annoyed, a storm meets the gaze of dried blood, unflinching.   

 

“Observed evidence implies you would have no problem gaining some needed essentials with the meal I give you.” A smirk offered along with the false promise of peace through opened palms. Those same steady hands flick the button of his vest to better loosen his posture and keep his movements unrestricted, both practiced and a subtle jab.

 

“The key word there is ‘some’. I need something else to survive than just eating _that_.”

 

A disappointed moue, but for the pinched amusement of eyes.  “And yet, each time I offer the remaining, I’m refused. My good will spurned.” A hand folds across his chest, a mime’s heartbreak or a jester’s joke. “Only ask of me and you shall receive.”

 

“Careful, doctor. Your complex is showing.” Leaning back on the bed, his posture slumps and his eyes close, a dismissal.

 

“I am a patient man, dear Will.” The man adjusts his cuffs and leaves the tray of food where it is. He steps closer to the bed, keeping an eye on how much motion the bed’s occupant is afforded.

 

“So, am I, Doctor Lecter.”

 

“Please, Will. As dear friends, I insist that you call me Hannibal.”

 

“As your former patient turned captive, I insist that you call me nothing. Because it’s exactly how much I consider you in my life.” Will aims a hard and unrelenting gaze.

 

Hannibal purses his lips, before a thoughtful and hopelessly fond look overcomes his face. “Stubborn and rude. The latter an appalling characteristic, but on you-” His smile as beatific and enigmatic as Mona Lisa’s. “An eternal beauty, incomparable to even love itself. How envious Venus must be.”

 

“I’m not hungry.” Will says grumpily.

 

“I think we both know that’s a lie.” Hannibal retorts genially. “I should hate to see you waste away. But then again, wasting away is far removed from your repertoire as breathing air is to a fish.”

 

“Are you done?” Will waves his bound hands, the chains jangling. “With the bullshit and the metaphors.”

 

Hannibal sighs, too fond of the other’s obstinance to find offense. “Very well. I trust that you’ll see sense soon enough, but I truly have no desire to see you hurting.” ‘ _At least not without a touch of pleasure_ ,’ he thinks. ‘ _Like with like makes dull, but beauty doubled makes a delectable feast for the eyes,’_ the thought worms its way into his psyche, and he plans to immortalize the poetry onto paper if only to think back fondly on it _._ With care, he rests the plate on the bed before smoothly darting away from the hand that might have taken hold of his throat. Turning his eyes up, Hannibal meets Will’s violet-eyed ire and bared teeth. “Do you want to kill me?” He asks head tilted like a predatory bird curious at the sight of a snake slithering by.

 

A hiss given in answer, angry.

 

A riposte in an honest smile and a deeper crinkle of the crows feet around his eyes, ever hungry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham and psycho-analysis

He closes his eyes. Opening them to…

 

An array of federal agents and forensic teams scattered throughout a common suburban house, weaving in and out like an ant colony of dark blues and gloved hands. Blue and red lights continue to spin a kaleidoscope on the house’s egg-shell walls, bouncing back like some nonsensical, domestic circus amidst a neighborhood full of nosy standers-by held back by a flimsy yellow tape.

 

Dressed in an ill-fitting jacket and matching size of khakis, he ignores the throng and observes the story told inside.

 

 _One_. _Two_...

 

_**Bang**. **Bang**. _

 

On each side of the Mr. Marlow’s neck, an expert shot tears through flesh. The killer then calmly levels with the panicking rise and fall of Mrs. Marlow.

 

_**Bang**. _

 

Her blood sprays only from impact, but after the bullet passes, the dark, scarlet life fluid pools around her. An open jugular vein doesn’t call for immediate intervention. Mrs. Marlow looks upon the face of the intruder in paralyzed fear, unable to so much as scream or beg for mercy. 

 

 _Three_.

 

He blinks and keeps his hands open at his sides, fighting the subconscious urge to palm his gun. Blue eyes follow the rusted spray on the walls and the security keypad.

 

“I need the security reports.”

 

Not long after his announcement, one of the police officers hands him a copy. His glasses fall down his nose, obscuring his eyes and face, just enough to drop any inklings of interest he might garner. First, he looks to the most recent alarm, which happened to occur on the same night as the attack. Curioser and curioser, understanding colors his every action.

 

“Somebody check if the phone lines were tapped.”

 

He pushes his glasses up…

 

[ **FBI Training Academy; Quantico, VA** ]

 

And provides a side profile to the audience of young hopefuls the academy has handed to him. Each and every one aiming to be the next big name in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. With one click, the powerpoint projector disappears, leaving only the gray wall behind.

 

“*Everybody’s thought of killing someone, one way or another. Be it by your own hand, or the hand of God.*” He thinks his next words carefully. “*Think about killing Mrs. Marlow.* You all are here to get in the minds of killers, terrorists… people. What better way to profile them, than to put yourself in their shoes. To understand _why_ these people were victimized. Why a woman, seemingly of unremarkable characteristics, was targeted. Attacked in her own home. Both her and her husband left alive as dying witnesses.”

 

Walking behind the podium, he arranges his folders and papers accordingly.

 

“You have a syllabus. Read it.”

 

Focusing his attention on his packing, he purposely refuses to meet the eyes of any students lagging behind, attempting to butter him up or genuinely wishing to speak to him about the lesson topic. His avoidance extends to the older man in a two-piece suit standing diagonal to the auditorium. Just as he picks up his belongings, a voice greets him -- a clear refusal at being ignored.

 

“Will Graham.”

 

Will blinks his eyes, looking down at the tightening grip he has on his leather messenger bag. He sighs because he’s annoyed, he’s tired… worst of all, he’s hungry. That sandwich at lunch was the only food he’d had all day. Tired eyes look to the interruption, a sharp gaze hidden behind non-prescription glasses.

 

“I’m Special Agent Jack Crawford. Head of the Behavioral Science Unit.” The interruption introduces. Wearing a dark brown suit and a royal blue shirt with a pin-striped tie, Jack Crawford presents himself as professional but with a personality to match a bulldog’s-- unerring, steadfast, and most of all a dog with a bone.

 

Based on the introduction alone, Will sees Jack as a man in heavy pursuit of justice. His innate instinct to sneer will be a constant battle.

 

“We’ve met before.” Jack continues.

 

Will pauses to match the person before him in memory. _Huh_. “Yes.”

 

“We had an argument at the opening night of the new exhibit.”

 

“I remember a disagreement.” Will starts to turn away, and it takes every ounce of control not to appropriately react to an unfamiliar hand suddenly reaching for his glasses.

 

“May I?” Jack asks, belatedly in Will’s opinion, after having already pushed the glasses up on his nose bridge.

 

“I recall you scoffing at its title. The ‘Evil Minds Research Museum’ and walking away from the reception.” Jack teases and doesn’t move from his purposeful encroachment of the other’s space.

 

“It’s hammy, Jack. And evokes cartoonish imagery, rather than what they really were.” A confrontation would be simple, but he turns his blue eyes to focus on the man’s shoulder. “What do you want?” A statement of inquiry made in demand, because Will knows his every step will be dogged until this man has what he wants from him and be brought— mind yanked out of his own skull or time occupied by every order —to heel.

 

“I need to borrow your imagination.” Jack leans in, as if imparting a secret that should tie them together. Children sharing one inane tidbit about themselves that no other could possibly know, cementing a bond through a game of telephone between two.

 

Will lets the man poke and prod. Innocuous inquiries being more like sharpened pitch forks, exposing the vulnerable parts of himself spoken among all and sundry who deem his ‘way of thinking’ so ‘miraculous’, ‘peculiar’. He might as well be the second coming of Sherlock Holmes with the way they’ve painted his idiosyncrasies: tolerable, remarkable, but overall a stigma.

 

They talk about missing girls, and Will notices Jack’s inflection, his phrasing --each narrative meant to pull on his guilt, his charity. He clutches his suitcase to his stomach, glad for the noise of the halls shrouding its complaints.

 

Jack leads him to an office, to the man’s corkboard. The organization reveals an obsessive but orderly mind, at least it seems like it.

 

Will wouldn’t discount the man making everything seem picture perfect to come off as if they’ve gone through every possible avenue before turning to him as some last resort. Jack’s very own Hail Mary, except more commonly used. However, what really catches his eyes are the headshots of young girls, eight of them, and Jack hands him one, talking throughout.

 

“... so we’re focusing on Elise Nichols.”

 

Will stays silent, never once making eye contact. When it seems as if the man will actually let him speak, rather than use his words to swing back at him, he says: “They’re all very… Mall of America.” He puts the photo handed to him back onto the board, a pin between her eyes. “Brunette, caucasian. A lot of wind-chafed skin. Pale, freckled.”

 

Jack includes: “Roughly the same age, same height. Same hair and eye-color--”

 

 _‘Not really’_ , Will thinks. He sees brown and hazel scattered among them, far from uniform. _‘But where is blue and green?’_

 

Jack continues, unaware. “What is it about all of these girls?”

 

 _‘As the Head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit, you don’t seem to be very observant.’_ Will thinks about the best way to phrase the thought without outright saying so. “If they have those things in common, then rather than all…” His eyebrows wrinkle, curiosity getting the better of him. “Rather than one for all, I’d say this is all for one.” Blue storms travel from one end of the edge to the other.

 

“What do you mean, Will?” Jack asks, accusation in his eyes.

 

 _Using my first name in conversation._ Will could scoff at the textbook manipulation, but he doesn’t have the energy. “Your killer’s interest lies solely on one girl. The others are replacements, substitutes. Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket. Hidden amongst a multitude of candy bars, each looking the same as the other, but never sharing enough to be that special one.”

 

Jack pauses and looks back at the photos. “Is he reliving that moment when he killed his golden ticket? Is he buying all his candy bars to get ready for his golden ticket?” The man shoves his hands in his pants pockets. “Or is he searching for it? More of a Charlie Bucket than a Willy Wonka.”

 

“I don’t know.” Will adjusts the hold he has on his messenger bag. “Charlie Bucket or Willy Wonka, either way his golden ticket will be precious, hidden by his own hand from either perspective. I mean I would. Wouldn’t you?” He starts to walk away.

 

“I want you to get close to this.” Jack announces, no demands.

 

“No. This is the FBI and as the Head of the BHU, I highly doubt that you’re lacking in profilers. Much less, competent ones.” Will snipes, turning his back.

 

“But they can’t do what you can.” Jack turns back, halting Will by the surety in his voice.

 

“A profiler is a profiler is a profiler.” Will sings.

 

“Not true, especially when it comes to you.” Jack asserts.

 

Will holds back the bitter laugh sitting under his tongue, but he allows a smirk to grace his face unseen. “A lot of talk about the, uh, particular way I think?” When he turns around to face Jack, his smile is all teeth. “Do you all get together for afternoon tea? Don your best bonnets and ribbons and gloves? Gossip in propriety, as is wont to do for old maids. No offense meant for old maids, of course.”

 

Jack’s face creases into a glare, before he smoothes it out. Satisfaction not-so well-hidden in his voice. “You make leaps you can’t explain, Will.”

 

“My explanation is very simple, Jack. You and the rest of the world call it _evidence_.” Will’s lips tighten in annoyance.

 

“Then help me find some evidence.” A bulldog with a bone.

 

“Huh.” He makes a fist in one hand and uses the prominent bone ridge of his thumb to rub at his chin. “I tell you my mindset takes shelter under the umbrella of autistics and aspergers. And yet… you try and try to force me into socialization, the likes of which… ” Will shakes his head. “Bring me a contract for a consultant role because that is all you’ll be getting from me. I’ll be bringing my own. We’ll do as democracy demands of civil exchange. Compromise.”

 

“And if we don’t?” Jack argues adamantly.

 

“Like I said, no shortage of profilers here at the FBI.” Will doesn’t bother to look back.

 

Jack turns his attention back to the board, a heavy glower. His chin rises as his eyes rove over each victim before he looks down. Sixteen sets of eyes having a clear view of his thinning and graying hair.

 

****

 

His curls are tousled and wild. Face clean from its usual scruff. Jeans ripped and painted on, he skips the line and rests a hand on the bouncer’s bicep. Leaning in close, he whispers something that has the bouncer eager to let him through.

 

The flashing strobe lights make his hair reflect purples, reds, and blues-- his purple eyes unremarkable and face even moreso. Just another body among many. Planting himself at the bar, he leans his body into a sinuous stretch and waits. Soon after, the bartender smiles at him flirtatiously.

 

“What’ll you have, blue eyes?”

 

“Whiskey, straight.” He responds, voice light. The lack of facial hair shows off his sharp jaw and makes him seem youthful. Drink in hand, he shoots it back smoothly, not a whisper of a wince at the warm, hard liquor going down his throat. He turns his back before the barista can chat him up and moves to the dance floor, bodies forming a path for him. Eyes closed, he tilts his head back and feels the music, lets his body be moved by it. When arms close behind him and another set cups his neck and shoulders, he makes sure his touch is skin to skin.

 

“Why don’t we move this somewhere private?” He whispers to both.

 

They respond eagerly.

 

Not long after, he leaves the modest motel and the sleeping couple behind him. A spring in his step unlike the downtrodden clop of before. Fortunately for him, he is still within walking distance of the club.

 

Driving along the wooded back-roads to home, he sees a dog walking on the street. He slows down and calls: “Hey.”

 

The dog glances back at him, but continues on. Its colors are a mixture of caramel, copper, and black; a mutt of beautiful variation with ears drooping and its tail as fluffy as a duster.

 

He drives ahead to wait with something any starving being couldn’t possibly ignore: food. With the lure successfully bitten, he takes the dog home. In the darkness of the woods and the open fields, his house shines like a beacon in the fog; himself the stray ship led to port. Leaving the dog inside the car, he approaches the house that greets him with warm welcome. ****

 

He lets the dog out and trusts wholeheartedly that his pack would keep the dog from escaping. As he readies the tub, he says: “Let’s clean you up for now, and tomorrow, I’ll drop you off at the vet. Alright?” He pours water over the dog’s soaped up hair. “My name’s Will, by the way.” Will adds as he massages the dog’s head and rinses him slowly. The urge to give the pup a name is not impossible. Maybe, something with a W. Warren? Wilson? He’ll keep thinking on it.  

 

****

 

Will opens the office’s glass doors and blinks at the sight of an extra body. “Jack,” he greets and acknowledges the other man --brushed, gray hair, stuffy… patterned suit-- with a nod and no eye-contact. “If I’d known you’d be bringing your lawyer along, I would’ve invited mine.” He rejoinders as he walks through, not expecting Jack to greet him with a handshake and rightly so.

 

“Does my profile fit a lawyer’s?” The extra body asks. Voice clear but heavily accented with something Will can name as Scandinavian and mid-European.

 

At the question, Will turns his full attention to the man and stops where he stands, messenger bag in hand. The professor tilts his head, not unaware of Jack’s close attention. A blink. “My mistake,” he adjusts his glasses, “More a doctor than a lawyer. And not just any doctor, but a psychiatrist.” Will glances at Jack for a second before he returns his attention to the doctor, alert.

 

“Will-” Jack starts to interrupt.

 

“It’s alright, Jack.”

“I’m not done, Jack.”

 

Both Will and the gray-haired doctor speak at the same time, eyes on each other. Blue turn squinty-eyed, while maroon, brown light up— suspicion and interest, respectively.

 

Will continues. “Judging by _why_ a doctor might need to visit the head of BHU in his office… You’re either about to be hired on as a consultant or you’ve been asked to do a psych evaluation.” At noticing the other’s smirk, Will huffs. “Or both. But seeing as I was just asked to be a consultant, that seems either very well-timed or not so coincidental.”

 

“Will, that’s--” Jack tries to talk over him but pauses when stormy blues are sent his way.

 

Nonetheless, Will still keeps the other man in his line of vision. “Now, why would a psych evaluation be conducted at the same time as a special consultant is, maybe, about to be hired onto a prioritized investigation? Oh, I know.” He says the last word with a flourish. “Jack, if you’d decided to talk instead of--” He shakes his head, curls bouncing, and pinches the save between his brows. “Sorry to waste your time, doctor.” Will wonders to himself if any of this effort is worth it when he seems to only feel the need to walk away from Jack Crawford’s schemes. By the droop of his shoulders, most would assume that he is saddened but truthfully all Will feels is irritation. Whether at his own sense of morals or this current life he’s made for himself these past few years. Curiosity did kill the cat, after all, but his infinite lives have offered satiation and disappointment in turns out of his control. 

 

“Why do you apologize?” The doctor asks, turning his body to the clean-shaven man. His posture is straight-backed but open with wrists folded over the other and hands in a relaxed grip. 

 

“It seems like the polite thing to do, as strangers. That and not only was my time wasted but so was yours.”

 

“But you were not the one to invite me here to ‘waste my time’, as you say.” The doctor smiles. “Trouble with wasted time, Mister…?”

 

“I didn't introduce myself, doctor.” Will holds his messenger bag in both hands. “And, generally, yes. Especially as a teacher during finals week.” He looks to Jack, unimpressed. “Jack, next time, feel free to use your higher education to make conversation.”

 

“Sit down, Will.” Jack commands.

 

Will turns his back and walks away.

 

“Will!”

 

Will waves a lazy, single-handed salute. “I’ve got a class on psycho-analysis. You can catch me, after, if you still want to talk. _Jack_.” He adds the man’s name as an afterthought.

 

The glass door shuts gently behind him.

 

Left alone, the two men look at each other. One with an exasperated mien, while the other only seems to be delighted.

 

“I don't think that went too well, doctor.”

 

“On the contrary, Jack. I believe I have gained a fairly baseline profile of Mr. Will Graham.”

 

Jack gestures for him to continue.

 

“Verbose, intelligent, and stubborn. Good Will can see my point of view as easily as he can see yours, with very little bleed through.”

 

“And by ‘bleed through’?”

 

Hannibal sits back on his chair, hands folded. “I refer to your mentioned worry of him empathizing too much. He seems very stable, if a bit unwilling to dull his tongue--”

 

“That’s a problem.”

 

“For you or for him?”

 

“I’ve already had my evaluation, doctor.”

 

“Not by me.” The doctor makes sure to keep his intonation light and dresses the statement with a kind smile.

 

“Can’t argue that.” Jack returns the smile. “But about Will Graham, you don't think he’ll have a problem with getting too close?”

 

“Empathy is a double-edged sword. Understanding another’s point of view, especially those with unstable minds, can be taxing.” Here, he gets a far away look in his eyes. “However, Will Graham seems to have a firm grasp of who he is, hence his unwillingness to blindly accept your request and a surprise evaluation on his person.” He leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees urging Jack to mimic the pose. “Imagine, any common person’s mental protection to be that of the human skull, hard bone and hollow. Will Graham’s mental protection, on the other hand, is more akin to a battered stone fort with traps laid ahead and a moat of crocodiles surrounding it from all sides. Standing tall despite the ravages of war laid waste to it by the minds he connects to. A sign ‘Here be Dragons’ will welcome all who enter.” At the last word, Hannibal’s eyes turn faraway as if his own imagination had been carried by horned, leather wings.

 

Jack pauses and cups his chin, thoughtful. He nods. “You’ve painted a vivid picture, Dr. Lecter, not unlike your drawings. But I need Will in the saddle, so to speak.” His hand gestures.

 

“Even so, Jack, pointing him and his horse on which direction to take will only have him jumping off rather than staying on.”

 

Jack sighs and taps a rhythm on the table, not noticing the pointed glance his hand gets from the doctor. Rather than answer, Jack nods silently but his face implies a more thoughtful approach to the present situation. “May I continue borrowing your time on this?” Jack stands.

 

“Luckily for you, I had my schedule cleared for the day. Where to?” Dr. Lecter follows.

 

“How would you feel if I introduced you to the rest of my team?” Jack asks.

 

“Does the rest of your team require their own psychiatric evaluations?” An eyebrow rises up.

 

Jack chuckles. “While I might say yes, they have actually passed their own evals. These people are brilliant, don’t get me wrong. But there’s a reason neither me nor my wife decided to pursue children in any form.”  

 

The two quietly exchange banter back and forth until they reach the lower level. A set of metal doors sits in front of them. Jack opens one for the doctor, but soon after, the two are bombarded with three voices arguing back and forth about the multiple uses of bird feces or lack thereof.

 

Jack sighs and booms: “Children!” He follows after the doctor and lets the door close after him. Stepping past the doctor, his hands fist at his sides. A glare deadly enough to turn people to stone is aimed at the three occupants donning lab coats.

 

Silence overcomes the room, until: “Dad seems ma~d.”

 

One of the men, his voice scratchy and somewhat fitting of an alto, whispers loud enough to be heard by every occupant in the room. His whisper earns the ire of the only Asian and woman in the room as evidenced by the solid punch she lands at his shoulder. The last man releases a whiff of a laugh before his lips seal tightly at noticing Jack’s continued stare down.

 

Clearing his throat, Jack leaves one last look of reprimand before he gestures to the doctor. “Everyone this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a consultant for the Nichols investigation.” Looking to Dr. Lecter, he nods his head. “Dr. Lecter, this is Beverly Katz--”

 

He gestures to the Asian woman, who’s hair is slightly curled and face is lightly dressed in makeup. Beverly nods her head at the newcomer.

 

Eyes lighting up in curiosity, Hannibal thinks that her surname suits her to a ‘t’.

 

“-- The man who can’t keep his mouth shut is Brian Zeller--” Jack gestures to a man with wavy hair managed by a decent amount of gel, his beard is scruffy but trimmed. Brian nods and boldly meets with the doctor’s eyes, enough time spent to show his own personality.

 

And last but not least, Jack points to: “This is James Price--”

 

Seemingly to be the oldest in the room, around the same age as Jack. The mousy man offers a grin and puts his hands in his pockets, a bit fidgety. “Or you can call me Jim,” the man shrugs.

 

“Please, call me Hannibal.” The doctor offers, politely.

 

“Like I said, a reason why me and my wife decided on ‘no kids’.” Jack quips. And with that, the awkward silence is broken by the three’s commentary.

 

“Oh, come on, Jack--” Brian teases.

 

“We are _not_ kids--” Beverly insists.

 

“ _I_ am a kid at heart--” Jimmy adds.

 

Hannibal looks over each character and does not see a problem in having limited interactions with the trio. Though, he could not help but wonder if they were more palatable individually. Ignoring the back and forth, his maroon-brown eyes browse the lab and its contents: steel tables, a grey on white color scheme, touches of brown desks, etc. A brief wrinkle of thin lips signals his dissatisfaction— _I would like to have been privy to Will’s lesson on psycho-analysis. I’m sure it could have offered to be more entertaining than watching four-grown adults quibbling._ All this passes through Hannibal’s mind with nary a suggestion on his flatly pleasant face.

**Author's Note:**

> Just suddenly decided to post this. Depending on how it’s received, I may or may not decide to continue. But don’t expect scheduled chapter posts (Sorry, but I have to be realistic.)


End file.
